Long Rows

Written after a workshop on Imtiaz Dharker examining the subject of childhood and poverty.

The Long Rows in Clay Cross were where my mum grew up.

Click here to hear about the Long Rows

 

 

Long Rows

Here they come, ragged pullovers
smeared with dirt, snotty-sleeved,
pushing and fighting. 

Basin haircuts, running from the rain,
scrapping for playthings. Old boxes,
a burst casey, metal rods.

Always hungry, wanting to play
but wanting mam's tea more. Gulping
it down like dogs. 

Waiting for their dads to come home
from the pit. Some with joy,
some with fear.

And it'll be them too, after the grubby days
on the crumbling roads, doors open,
in and out.

Here they'll come, booted and black,
smeared with dust, throats on fire,
shattered.

Tim Fellows 2020

That Other Child - in memory of the Aberfan disaster

Aberfan, Cymru, 21 October 1966. 144 people, including 116 children died when the spoil heap colapsed and slid onto the village, engulfing the school. The cause was the collapse of a spoil heap from the colliery that was undermined by spring water. Despite the subsequent enquiry putting the blame squarely on the NCB, nobody lost their jobs or was even fined, let alone imprisoned for clear negligence. Lord Alfred Robens, chairman of the NCB and clearly part of the institutional problems that led to the disaster, went on to become the chair of a Health and Safety committee. Originally a Labour politician and union leader, by 1979 he was living a luxurious lifestyle and had aligned with Thatcher's Conservatives. 

 

 
That Other Child

Derbyshire, 1966
mum dropped me at the school gates
wrapped against October's chill
She made sure I wasn't late

Another Friday for that boy,
in the shadow of the mine
closed down just the year before;
the pit head stayed, a kind of shrine

or monument to colliers past
the slag heap hill was out of bounds;
too dangerous to climb back then
but meanwhile, as the clock unwound,

other children laugh and play,
sitting in their tiny chairs
never saw their mums again;
just an accident of birth

that they, not I, died on that day
in that pit village, far away.

Tim Fellows 2020

 

Images from Wikipedia

Leaving

 Written on a flight back from Spain in August 2020

Leaving

He is leaving.

The wheels rise, still spinning, 

from the brown, infertile

land. Clouds break and reveal

the sea, calmness hiding

turmoil beneath.

He closes his eyes and waits

until the mountains have passed

and the view is a patchwork

of brown and green. 

His mind drifts and imagines

the time after the landing.

 

Tim Fellows 2020

 

Image by AMBRA FALCONI from Pixabay

Equinox

 A sonnet on the changing of seasons. Thanks to Mick Jenkinson for some suggestions that improved it. 

Equinox

The earth has tilted and we’ve reached the time
where day and night are weighed; and weigh the same.
With nature balanced, summer’s lilting rhyme's
replaced by autumn’s slow and brown decline.

As day meets night the planets mark their course
across the cooling, cloud strewn moonlit sky.
We stand and watch as time goes calmly by,
helpless to fight the mighty unseen force

that drives us all, we want to stop the flow
and hold a universe within our hand.
To keep this one strand of our life’s fine yarn
poised; cherish it before we let it go.

But day by day we lose a little light
and welcome in the coming of the night. 

Tim Fellows September 2020

Image by Gisela Merkuur from Pixabay

Sleep

 A rarity these days - a mining poem.

My first poem in this burst of writing, back in 2016, was "10 Minutes", about my mum's Uncle Jim. I had written very much in a traditional form (ballad), and I stand by that poem. Since then, I've learnt a lot and found different styles. This represents a second take on the sad story. Is one better than the other? I don't know, I'll leave that up to you. 

 

 

 

Sleep

Sleep comes quickly to the mining man,

muscles hardened in the choking dark

repaired by blood that knows it may be spilled,

primed by a heart that's borne its share of work.  

He dreams of sunlight, air not thick

with particles that float and gently 

stain the earth from which they came. 

He breathes with a faint wheeze,

gentle as a child as in his dream 

he grows to giant size, picks up some slag

in one great hand and with the other tears

the pit head from its roots. He fills

the hole fist by fist, dust and rocks

seeping through long fingers, callouses

as big as the wheel that still spins,

ignores the flailing, half-mile rope

that lashes at his blue-stained cuts. 

 

The hole is filled, he pounds and pounds 

at the blackened earth, shakes foundations,

roars to the sun and drinks the northern rain. 

His eyes are open now, just enough; he feels

the dreadful weight upon his chest. The roof 

is gone, he squeezes out a rasping breath
and sleep comes quickly to the mining man.

Tim Fellows September 2020

Image by Willi Heidelbach from Pixabay